


It's Only a Game

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Games, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Kidlock, operation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Mummy Holmes has surprised her sons with a new amusement and Mycroft is tasked to coerce the youngest of the family into playing ...





	It's Only a Game

Setting the box on the sofa table, Mycroft braced himself and smiled hopefully at his brother who, unsurprisingly didn’t return even a smidgen of it.

      “I… what is this atrocity?  If Mummy believes for a single moment that I shall waste precious minutes of my extremely valuable life on his affront to civilization, she is woefully mistaken!”

Though he had to concede a mental agreement with Sherlock concerning the garish gift, Mycroft’s _verbal_ agreement with his mother to ‘play nicely for once’ mandated that he keep his true thoughts to himself and embark upon a more domestically-diplomatic approach to the issue of sibling gameplay.

      “Sherlock…  let us show willing, for Mummy’s sake, if for no other reason.”

      “It is eye-boiling of color, bereft of even a modicum of anatomical realism… the nose is one even the most esteem-lacking of clowns would find humiliating to sport… the woman has gone mad!”

      “Most likely, however, and more to the point, Mummy has grown tired, as has Father and the entire surrounding community, of the rather typhoonic tantrums that result when you challenge me to any form of appreciable intellectual competition and find yourself crushed beneath the heel of my intellectual acumen and facility with the activity.”

Which would only escalate on the typhoon scale were the competition intentionally tilted to _favor_ his brother, leaving Mycroft where he seemed always to lie in matters concerning Sherlock – squarely between the Scylla and Charybdis.

      “That is a lie!  Even the weakest of minds could discern in an instant that…”

      “Yes?”

      “You cheat.”

      “Incorrect.”

      “You are a despicable cheater who only is able to gain self-satisfaction from cruelly denying your betters their due spoils.”

      “I am both older and smarter than you, Sherlock, so it is to be expected that in a challenge involving the application of thought, I would stand as victor, wearing the laurel wreath.  I believe it is Mummy’s intention to, as is said, level the playing field.”

      “She is attempting to reduce the number of her progeny through my inevitable death due to proximity with this… travesty.  Well, she shall not prevail.  I refuse even to allow the heat from my body to contact this monstrosity.”

Time, apparently, to implement manipulative measures.  With the degree of practice he received interacting with Sherlock, perhaps he should consider a future career in government or one of the various intelligence agencies.  No politician or foreign agent could possibly be more stubborn and difficult to direct than his darling baby brother. 

      “Then it is my lucky day as I know that, in addition to this… amusement… Mummy returned from the shops with a rather luscious-smelling cake and I, now, shall have _your_ portion as well as mine, as I claim that as your penalty for forfeiture of our little competition.  Huzzah.”

      “WHAT!  You… you dare to claim my honor _and_ my cake?  How… I… I challenge you to a surgical duel!”

One day, brother mine, you will recognize my little traps and snares.  Today, however, is not that day.

      “Lawks!  Oh well, I suppose I am duty-bound to accept.  Shall you perform the first strike or shall I be graced with that advantage?”

      “You are attempting to discombobulate me, but you shall not prevail.”

      “That did not, in any manner, answer my question.”

      “Buffoon.  Hand me the instrument and I will begin.”

      “Do you mean the one that is approximately three millimeters from your own hand?”

      “Silence!  It is already sufficiently disheartening that this crude implement has neither the precision nor the heft of a proper medical or scientific instrument that your attempts at wit are both unnecessary and tedious.  Now… I demand quiet in the surgical theater.”

      “Are you referring to the sitting room?  Good heavens… must your rude ripostes be so well-provided with spittle?”

      “I am surprised that the liquid did not immediately freeze upon contact with the frigid nature of your flesh, but I cannot spare the time at this moment to conduct an experiment on the thermal properties of my bodily fluids.  Hmmmm… I believe I shall first remove the heart.  It will be a kindness that his immediate death precludes the unbearable pain of further butchery.  Quiet… quiet… BLAST!”

      “Oh dear, the clown nose is displeased with your surgical talents.  Such a harsh judge is the vibrant proboscis.  I believe it is now my turn?  Let me see… I shall try the funny bone.  You claim, rather incessantly, that I lack one of my own, so, perhaps, this shall act as a magical talisman to replenish my storehouse of wit.  Just a moment… carefully… oh.  Bugger.”

      “HA!  You are as fumble-fingered as a mitten-wearing poodle.”

      “Exactly what acts of manual dexterity would a poodle be required to perform, mittens or lack thereof, brother mine?”

      “Pfft… you cannot even _recognize_ wit when it is rapier sharp and thrusting into your heart.”

      “Oh, was it actually _my_ heart for which you were aiming when you utterly failed to excise this poor, portly gentleman’s from his chest?”

      “SILENCE!  I will now remove the wishbone.  When it is mine, I shall make the most splendid of wishes that you become allergic to both me and cake so that my life shall be blissfully free of your bothersome presence and well provided with palatable rewards.”

Watching his brother approach the procedure with the intensity of purpose of the most dedicated of surgeons, Mycroft smiled softly and knew in his heart that when Sherlock found his place in the world, learned what it was he wanted to pursue in this life, he would not only succeed, he would _excel_ …

      “Carefully, Sherlock… temper your motions…”

      “Shhh… I nearly have it… SUCCESS!”

Sherlock waved the forceps and small plastic bone as if it was the enemy flag captured at the end of a long and brutal war.

      “Bravo, brother!  First blood to you!”

And the smile that is now lighting the room is my own reward for your victory.

      “My fingers are supremely supple and dexterous.”

Which is why Mummy may have _picked_ this particular game.  Your burgeoning talent with the violin has certainly given you a nimbleness of digit… and the potential for an honest victory in which you can take genuine pride.  Our mater may not be quite so mad as we believe…

      “Unquestionably.  I doff my cap at your skilled performance.”

      “Your fingers, in contrast, are only fat.”

      “Untrue, for… lo!  I can waggle them most provocatively as I uptake the surgical tool.  I would, however, appreciate a consultation from one with successful experience at our task.  What would be your recommendation, Dr. Holmes?”

      “Hmmmm… I recommend the writer’s cramp.  You are forever scribbling in your various journals and annotating texts that it seems the most appropriate.”

Said with only the most minimal trickle of venom in the tone.  Oh, brother, methinks you are becoming invested in our little competition.  Perhaps… perhaps the next time Mummy chooses to visit the shops she might purchase another game of equal nonsense and lack of intellectual content for… this is pleasant.  Most pleasant, in fact.

      “Of course, the breadbasket would also be warranted since, as it has been mentioned, you are fat.”

Still pleasant.. very, very pleasant, indeed…


End file.
